In “The Devil Wears Prada 2,” clothes once again speak before the characters do. They enter a scene before a line is delivered, explain status before dialogue begins and reveal ambition before conflict appears. This is not wardrobe in the ordinary sense, but a system of signs in which every collar, belt, corset, sequin and missing blouse has its own tone.
For Molly Rogers, the return was more than a professional assignment. On the 2006 original, she worked as associate costume designer alongside Patricia Field, whose name became almost synonymous with screen fashion after “Sex and the City.” In the sequel, Rogers leads the costume world herself.
That shift matters. The original film long ago stopped being just a comedy about a glossy fashion magazine. It became a pop-cultural dictionary: “That’s all,” the cerulean sweater, Miranda’s cold gaze, Andy’s transformation, the Runway office as a school of ruthless aesthetic power. The sequel did not merely need to dress its characters. It had to withstand the pressure of memory.
Daycom’s assessment is that the central challenge of the costumes in “The Devil Wears Prada 2” is that they cannot be only beautiful. They must quote the past, reveal how the characters have changed and prove that fashion on screen can still function as a language of its own, rather than a parade of recognizable labels.
Miranda Priestly’s most commanding look is the red asymmetrical Balenciaga gown for the gala scene. It is not simply eveningwear. It is almost heraldry: silk taffeta, a tilted collar, one covered arm and one bare one, a narrow belt, white hair cutting sharply against the red.
«Це було як повернення до літнього табору», – сказала Моллі Роджерс, яка обійняла посаду головного художника з костюмів у продовженні після роботи помічником художника над оригінальним фільмом «Диявол носить Prada» — Теа Трафф
The restraint within the excess is crucial. Miranda could have been given a hat, almost a demonic flourish, but the idea was abandoned. Correctly so. The strongest accessory is not an object, but Miranda’s own head: the white hair that turns the red dress from ornament into a frame for the face.
That is how mature costume dramaturgy works. It knows when to stop. In a world where fashion often proves itself through excess, Miranda remains dangerous through precision. Her luxury does not ask for attention. It commands it.
Andy Sachs receives a very different language. She is no longer the naïve assistant who must be rewritten through clothes. Her looks now rest on professionalism, autonomy and the lingering tension between journalism and the fashion world. A black Jean Paul Gaultier pinstriped vest, matching trousers, pearls and nothing underneath are not casual provocation.
The outfit depends on balance. From the front, it carries an almost businesslike severity; from the back, there is a white silk surprise. Andy is no longer playing someone else’s game as she did in the first film. She knows the rules, but leaves a breach in them — a turn, a private gesture.
Her gala look develops the same logic. A sheer Armani Privé blouse beneath a black velvet jumpsuit with Swarovski-crystal pinstripe suspenders reverses the old formula of layering. Once, a shirt under a dress or vest suggested apprenticeship, adaptation, the effort to fit in. Now transparency becomes a sign of control.
Енн Гетевей у фільмі про Жана Поля Готьє для великого інтерв'ю, яке бере у свого персонажа-журналіста — Маколл Полей/Студія 20-го століття
За словами Роджерса, персонаж Емілі Блант має естетику поєднання різних стилів — Студія 20-го століття
Andy does not lose her vulnerability, but she no longer looks like someone easily shaped by another person’s will. Her style is older, cooler, more precise. It is not as imperial as Miranda’s and not as theatrically sharp as Emily’s. It is the language of a woman who has returned to the system without wanting to become its raw material again.
Emily Charlton may have the sequel’s most dynamic wardrobe. She is no longer only the assistant on the edge of collapse. Her style sharpens into a mix of Dior, Wiederhoeft, Gaultier, corsets, suits, trousers, shirts and hard silhouettes. It contains ambition, resentment, self-defense and pleasure in her own complexity.
A sequined Dior houndstooth suit with a short Zimmermann leather capelet is nearly perfect for a scene of betrayal. It is not merely beautiful. It is predatory. A classic motif of power is distorted by shine, cape and the dramatic line of the shoulders. This is office dressing that knows how to strike.
Even a look that did not survive the final cut is revealing: a Dior gown with nude tulle, a black lace corset, opera gloves and a satin skirt. A Dior bow, which might have suggested safe femininity, turns into something darker, almost gothic. This is Emily refusing to be sweet.
Miranda in the office is a category of power all its own. A seemingly homey tasseled Dries Van Noten jacket does not soften her; it gives her editorial eccentricity. It carries an echo of Diana Vreeland — not a direct copy, but a memory of the editor as a character for whom taste was not service, but rule.
Редактор Шик — Дісней
Another Miranda look, Armani Privé in Milan’s Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, is built on shimmer. Colored crystals and black sequins on the coat turn her into a moving surface of light. In the frame, she does not merely pass through space. She forces the space to reflect her.
The risk in that look was the pussy-bow blouse. On Miranda, such an element could have seemed too soft, almost sentimental. But paired with sparkle, black trousers, Prada glasses and white hair, it does not weaken her. It adds texture. Softness here is not surrender, but another controlled layer.
Miranda’s white hair in the sequel deserves its own reading. It works as a more radical accessory than any glasses or jewelry. It gestures toward Polly Mellen and Carmen Dell’Orefice, but on screen it becomes above all a refusal of age-related disappearance. Miranda is not trying to look younger. She is crystallizing.
That matters to the whole philosophy of the costumes. The sequel does not try to return the characters to their 2006 state. It shows that style does not preserve a character in amber; it records new power, losses, compromises and wounds. Andy is no longer a pupil. Emily is no longer a supporting nerve. Miranda is no longer only the unreachable boss. All of them are older — and more complicated.
Rogers understands that in this universe, the brand cannot be the point. Balenciaga, Armani, Dior, Gaultier, Dries Van Noten and Prada matter only when they serve character. Otherwise, the film would become an expensive lookbook instead of a story about power, work, memory and the desire to be seen correctly.
That is why the most interesting choices often come not from abundance, but from restraint. Abandon the hat. Add a sheer blouse where bare skin might have been. Let white hair carry the image. Make a bow dangerous rather than sweet. In costume, as in editing, what is removed can be the strongest thing.
“The Devil Wears Prada 2” reminds us that fashion in cinema becomes great not when the viewer can identify the label, but when, after a scene, the character becomes impossible to imagine otherwise. Miranda’s red gown, Andy’s vest, Emily’s predatory houndstooth — these are not just clothes. They are psychology sewn to the body.
If the first film taught a mass audience to read fashion as a system of power, the sequel has a chance to show the next level: clothing as memory of a power that has changed. In the world of Runway, every seam still means something. The question is who still knows how to read it.
